


dog days (are over)

by AugustaByron



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Cats, Dogs, Future Fic, Good Pet Ownership, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 14:37:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7109518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AugustaByron/pseuds/AugustaByron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before he realizes exactly what's happening, Kent is hanging out with Holster all the fucking time. He still has, you know, games and practice, and a bunch of stuff to do, but he finds himself in Holster's apartment at least once a week, stealing the affections of his dog and doing his best not to check out Holster's ass.</p>
<p>In which Kent Parson pines, dogsits, and gets a clue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	dog days (are over)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! There are mentions of past Jack/Parse in this, but not enough to tag in the pairings section, and it could actually read as unrequited if that's your fancy. The dog is based on a real dog I know, who is the best animal in the entire world or at least in the top five. 
> 
> Title from Florence & the Machine, "Dog Days Are Over" (sometimes I think I'm funny). 
> 
> Check, Please belongs to Ngozi Ukazu.

Kent is hiding from his cat.

Normally, he wouldn't bother, because Kit, like all ladies in his life, treats him with a sort of kind disdain. Kent soaks that shit up, even when she's pissy. But this—this has reached new levels of anger. The last time he saw her, she was perched on top of the fridge, twitching tail the only sign she hadn't actually turned into a statue.

Waiting. Watching. Preparing.

And so Kent is trapped in his bedroom. Luckily there's an ensuite. Unluckily, there is no food.

Sundae whines and licks Kent's hand. He pats her on the top of the head.

“I feel you, bro,” he whispers. “I really do.”

 

Kit Purrson is an alpha pet. Kent accepted this long ago. He cannot cohabitate with another animal and hope to remain in her good graces, and this is fine. When he got Kit he was barely responsible enough to be in charge of himself, let alone another living creature. Fortunately for them both, Kit basically bullies Kent into doing adult shit like buying groceries (by means of yowling if she runs out of cat treats) and cleaning the house (by means of yowling louder if anything blocks her favorite route to her scratching palace).

So Kent waved goodbye to his dream of a menagerie of lovable strays many years ago. He is not entirely sure how he ended up dog sitting for Adam Birkholtz.

Well, no. That is a lie. Kent has seen Inception, okay? He knows it's important to be able to track how he got somewhere.

It started like this:

After about a year of tentative friendship with Zimms, Kent finds out that there are two real rules he has to follow going forward.

      1. Don't bring up signing with the Falconers again. Zimms wants to win at least one Cup without Kent's help before he's allowed to talk about that. (Which, Kent would like to say, tick fucking tock. He's going UFA in like two years, Zimms had better be ready for Kent's jelly by then.)

      2. Don't be a dick about any member, past or present, of the Samwell Men's Hockey team.




This, somehow, leads to Zimms aggressively texting about how his old teammate Holster is moving to Las Vegas soon, and maybe Kent could show him around.

Kent, because he is an idiot, agrees.

 

This, after many twists and turns, led to the dog sitting, and the hiding, and the situation rapidly turning drastic.

Sundae's going to need to go for a walk soon.

 

Zimms' teammate Holster is a fucking giant. He is also a huge nerd, and way smarter than Kent. Kent would like to mention that right off the bat, because he knows himself, okay? He knows he has a type. Tall, athletic, and too good for him is basically the trifecta.

“So you're working with the baby Aces?” Kent asks over dinner. He picked Holster up from the airport, installed him in his guest room, and begged his agent to send a realtor over in the morning with apartment listings. Now they're at a restaurant with honest-to-god candles on the tables, and Kent is starting to regret his choice of venue. He should never trust Yelp reviews.

Holster is sitting across from him, looking a little gut punched, a little tired, but mostly gorgeous. He has glasses. Kent has had two glasses of wine and is going to order a third. He has to deal with a lot, here.

“Yeah,” Holster says, after he actually swallows his bite of steak. “I'm the deputy director of some boring financial thing. But hockey! And kids!”

“You were a business major, right?” It's a little difficult to put Holster in the context of five years ago, when he showed up in Zimms' horrible condemned flophouse and ended up chilling more with a bunch of freshman than his best friend. Ex best friend. Whatever, they're not in middle school.

But there was definitely a blond giant who made Kent feel like a dirty, pervy old man, and that was definitely Holster, and that guy was definitely a business major. Kent remembers. Because he is a dirty, pervy old man.

“Yup,” Holster says, grinning. Kent averts his eyes. Do not hit on Zimms' teammate or he will find out, he tells himself sternly. He will find out psychically and come to Vegas and _murder_ you. “That's nuts that you remember, dude. But it's totally a 'swawesome job, I'm stoked.”

“I'll probably be out there in a little while. PR likes me to do a couple things with the baby Aces in the preseason.”

Holster waggles his eyebrows, and Kent's stomach swoops like he's plunging down a rollercoaster.

“So you won't be able to run out on me after I've got my own place, huh?”

Kent is fucking doomed.

 

“Okay, girl. I think we should just make a run for it.”

Sundae wags her tail.

 

The baby Aces are technically the Las Vegas Hearts and the Las Vegas Diamonds, but Kent doesn't like calling them that. They're two youth teams, one for really small kids, like elementary age, and one for high schoolers, that focus on at-risk youth and the healing power of team sports, blah blah blah.

It means that Kent gets to skate around with a bunch of kids a couple times a year and PR films it, and then the internet goes bananas for a couple of days and people give the teams a bunch of money. It's basically his favorite.

Holster is nebulously in charge of the money aspect, Kent guesses. He talks about it sometimes, but a lot of it goes over Kent's head. He never did too well in school, that was always Zimms' thing, and math? Hell, no.

However, Kent has successfully manged to trick Holster into becoming his actual friend, which he never expected. And it is great. Not as great as dating him would have been, but alas.

Adding to the list of reasons Kent is super into him, Holster already has a boyfriend. Seriously, could this guy be any more Kent's type? Kent, by nature, tragically pines after unavailable dudes until someone snaps him out of it intervention style. He has tried to fix this with therapy and actual functional relationships, but it always comes back around again.

And of course, Holster is a good boyfriend. Half of what Holster says is about the dude: it's all “Justin sent me this picture of a monkey wearing a suit, want to see?” and “Ransom is so fucking smart, dude, he's going to be the best doctor ever.”

They have a dog together. Or had, because Holster apparently spent a year in Baltimore with the boyfriend before taking the job with the baby Aces, and they bought the dog then.

“Adopted,” Holster corrects himself. The dog, Sundae, is black and white with bright eyes. She looks like someone took a border collie and cut its legs off. Holster insists she's a corgi mix. “Her full name is Best Friend Sundae Birkholtz-Oluransi.”

As somebody who named his kitten Kent Parson Jr. before realizing the pun opportunity of calling her Kit Purrson, Kent has no room to judge.

Also, Sundae is the best fucking dog he's ever met. She likes to steal shoes. Not eat them, just take them and hide them. She also enjoys belly scratches and trying to run. She's not very good at it.

Kent hears the sound of a fake camera shutter, and when he looks up, Holster is typing away on his phone. It's comically small in his giant hands, which Kent does not stare at because he is not actually a thirsty pathetic loser, okay?

“Did you just Instagram me and your dog?” Kent demands. Sundae is currently flopped over his lap, letting him scratch behind her ears, and Kent has been murmuring sweet nothings such as 'who's the best girl? You are!' to her for the last few minutes.

“Dude,” Holster says. “I also Tweeted it.”

 

Kit is lurking somewhere instead of attacking, which is actually more worrying. Kent is worried, here. He can't show up in the locker room covered in cat scratches again. The boys will never let him hear the end of it.

From the doorway of his room, Sundae whimpers.

 

Before he realizes exactly what's happening, Kent is hanging out with Holster all the fucking time. He still has, you know, games and practice, and a bunch of stuff to do, but he finds himself in Holster's apartment at least once a week, stealing the affections of his dog and doing his best not to check out Holster's ass.

It's rude, okay? For one, Kent believes in leering with full permission. For another, Holster and his boyfriend are really fucking cute. Kent's seen the selfies.

And then comes the day when Holster has a long weekend off, and he's going to visit Justin in Maryland. Kent would like to have no part in this, but he has no choice.

He's dogsitting.

“Are you sure you don't mind watching her?” Holster frets. He drops Sundae's leash and she trots into Kent's condo, sniffing at his couch. Holster is wearing his glasses and a bright pink Las Vegas Diamonds shirt. Kent's heart beats a little faster.

He can practically hear the whole team chirping him. They got a hell of a kick out of Kent watching Sundae this weekend.

“Yeah, man, it's fine.” Kent sticks his hands in his pockets and smiles, tries to act casual. That's his move here. He still has Holster thinking he's a nice dude, he would like to keep that going as long as possible. “No worries. Go get your Ransom time.”

Holster gives him kind of a weird look, and Kent wonders if he's not supposed to call it that. “Okay,” he says, and hands over a whole fucking duffle bag of dog stuff. “There's her food, her bowls, some toys, and her blankie.”

“You know I own bowls, right? And blankets.” Kent takes the duffle and claps Holster on the shoulder, because he looks nervous. “Relax, dude. I grew up with dogs, I know how to do this. It's only a couple of days.”

To be fair, Kent's childhood dogs were all big, smelly hounds who only got to come inside when Kent's dad wasn't there to kick up a fuss. Or, like, when it was super fucking cold. Sundae is kind of a princess. See: she has her own special blanket.

“I know,” Holster says, and Kent realizes he never moved his hand. It's just there on Holster's shoulder, gripping. Kent stares at it in mute horror. He could move it, in theory. If he could remember how muscles work. “I trust you, it's just weird. I wish I could just take her, but she hates planes. Rans is disappointed, but he gets it.”

And yep. There it is. Kent manages to take his hand off of Holster. Sundae is Holster's dog, _with his boyfriend_. Holster is flying across the country, _to visit his boyfriend_.

“Justin will have to settle for pictures,” Kent says. He manages a grin, and ignores the weird look that Holster gives him. Kent is fucking excellent at not being creepy while pining, okay? He has had dinner with Bad Bob Zimmermann twice a year since he was eighteen. And he only cried in the bathroom at like, one of them.

“Thanks, though, dude. You're doing me a major solid.” Holster seizes Kent in a hug. Not a back-slapping one. It fucking lingers. Holster's arms are very solid and warm, and Kent tentatively wraps his arms around Holster's waist to hug back.

“It's nothing, man,” Kent says through a dry throat, and then detangles. Holster tilts his head at him, like a confused puppy, and then nods once.

“I still appreciate it. I'll see you in a few days!” Then Holster leaves with a few kisses blown in Sundae's direction. Kent shuts the door after him and then slumps, defeated. His hands are fucking tingling where he touched Holster.

“I am in way over my head,” he mutters.

From behind him, he hears Kit screech. Apparently she's noticed the invader.

 

Sundae barks and barks at the fence in the dog park instead of playing with the other dogs. Kent is sitting on top of a picnic table, drinking a bottle of water, and feeling at one with the fucking universe.

“You can't go play with the big dogs,” he calls to Sundae, who flicks her ears towards him and pretends that she hasn't been trying to fight the Great Dane on the other side of the fence. Kent can't help smiling.

Just like every other time in the last decade where he's been really fucking happy, he wants to tell Zimms about it.

Unlike most of those times, he gets out his phone. He snaps a picture of Sundae, who has turned around for the express purpose of giving him guilt-trip eyes, and sends it to Zimms.

Zimms texts back _haha, nice_ , which is his response to about half of the shit that Kent sends him. Dude needs to get a social media upgrade for his robot programming, or something.

It still gives Kent this warm glowy feeling that he will not be discussing with anyone, ever. The boys chirp him enough for stuff like how scared he is of his hairdresser, they do not need to know specifics about how he is a huge sucker.

“C'mere, girl,” Kent calls to Sundae, with no expectation that she'll actually come. But she runs over, little legs working furiously, tongue bobbing hilariously while she pants. She sits at Kent's feet and looks up at him expectantly. Kent fishes a treat out of his pocket and gives it to her, takes another picture to send to Holster.

_Haven't killed her yet_ , he captions it. About a second later he gets a picture of Holster and a gorgeous dude with insane cheekbones, beaming at the camera. They're pressed close together, and Holster looks—looser, somehow. Happy. Not that he looks depressed in Vegas, it's fucking Vegas, but Kent thinks maybe he's less stressed in the picture.

That must be Justin. Kent remembers Ransom from the times that Kent showed up at Samwell to stalk Zimms, but he didn't remember the cheekbones until now.

Well, fuck. Kent reaches down to scratch Sundae behind the ears.

She woofs at him. Sympathetically, Kent likes to think.

 

Kit is waiting at the door when they get back. She deigns to hiss at Kent, and bats at Sundae with a paw. Sundae licks her nose, and Kit looks so fucking startled that Kent collapses on the floor, laughing.

“You two need to get along,” he tells the ladies, who are sizing each other up. Well, Kit is sizing Sundae up. Sundae has plopped down and is nibbling at her own haunches.

Kit, to Kent's shock, purrs.

 

Sundae and Kit reach an armistice of sorts by the next morning, which is good, because Kent has to go to skate. It's technically optional, but Kent wants to work with one of the rookies on his faceoffs, ergo it is not really optional. The woes of being a captain.

“I saw you on Twitter,” Hammer says, the second Kent gets onto the ice. He slants his eyebrows threateningly at Kent.

“I'm always on Twitter, I'm famous,” Kent says, trying to cover up his sudden attack of nerves. He is not successful, judging from the way Hammer's frown just deepens. How can a dude who's built like an literal bear look so much like a Muppet when he's angry, Kent wonders, and then schools his own face into media-perfect blandness.

“There is a picture of you lying in the grass with a small dog crawling over your chest,” Hammer continues. “That is Adam's dog. You are doing it again.”

“No I'm not,” Kent automatically denies. Hammer was there for the Great Zimms Breakdown of Winter 2014, and even somewhat involved in the Epic Zimms Breakdown of Rookie Year, and therefore fucking knows what he's talking about.

“Haven't we been over this?” Hammer continues, loudly, talking over Kent like he never said anything. His Québécois accent is thick with emotion, probably over how stupid Kent is. He flings out an arm and catches Kent around the shoulders, tugs him close. “Didn't I let you go on a date with my favorite brother-in-law? Didn't Maria and I watch Brokeback Mountain with you even though there are no explosions? Why do you do these things, Parser? Hmmm?”

“It's not like it's on purpose,” Kent protests, ducking out from under Hammer's arm.

Hammer points at him threateningly. “You. You need to go on a date with a nice boy. A nice _available_ boy. A nice _gay_ boy.”

“They're usually at least sort of gay,” Kent complains. He's not that bad.

“I will ask Brandon if he has any single friends,” Hammer decides. “You are not good enough to marry into my family, but maybe he has someone who will be impressed with your stupid hair and money. At this point, that is all I am hoping for.”

He skates off, presumably to practice bashing the rookies into the boards, but Kent stays still for a second. Maybe he does need to go on a date with a nice, available, gay boy. Maybe that would be good for him.

He would way rather hang out on Holster's couch and watch shitty romantic comedies, and get drunk off of the terrible moonshine that Holster keeps trying to brew under his sink.

“Fuck,” Kent says. “I'm a mess.”

 

Holster gets back to reclaim Sundae like an hour before Kent has to leave to go on a roadie. He's pretty stoked about it, because they're going to Canada. Time for real snow.

“Baby!” Holster yells when he bursts in, “did you miss me?”

Sundae, napping on the couch with Kit, doesn't even wake up. Holster flips her off and turns to Kent with a shit-eating grin. “Well, did you?”

“Don't call me baby,” Kent says, wrinkling his nose. “How was your trip, dude?”

“Awesome,” Holster says. He grabs Kent in a backbreaking hug, casual. “March asked for my permission to propose to Ransom. She bought him a ring, it's legit gorgeous, I'm super jelly.”

Kent's brain whirs frantically, trying to keep up, and then shuts down. Overload, does not computer. “Who's March?”

“Ransom's girlfriend and the future mother of my godchildren,” Holster says. He hasn't let go of Kent. Instead he's moved to stroking Kent's back with one enormous hand. “God, dude, it's good to see you.”

“Ransom. Justin. He has a girlfriend?” And not a boyfriend? Holster isn't his boyfriend?

“She might be his fiancée by now,” Holster says. “I don't know when she was planning to pop the question, exactly. She gets kind of impatient about surprises, totally awful at Secret Santa.”

“You aren't dating Justin,” Kent says. He's got to say it aloud to process it. That makes Holster pull back and frown down at him, confused. He leaves his hands on Kent's shoulders.

“No, dude. Did you think I was? Because then I'm going to feel kind of weird about how I've been flirting with you so much.”

Kent has nothing to say. He just stands there, eyes wide, while Holster's frown slowly transforms into a sly grin.

“Oh,” Holster says, quiet, delighted. “You've got a thing for me! I wasn't sure, because you flirt back but then you get all closed off. You've been pining!”

“I have not,” Kent denies. Lies. Whatever, semantics.

“You have,” Holster says. He leans closer. “You've been pining while I've been having dirty thoughts about your freckles. Rans was chirping me so much this weekend over how I'd look when you sent selfies with Best Friend Sundae, it was unreal. You're unreal.”

“Shut up,” Kent says.

“I'm going to kiss you now, if that's cool,” Holster says. He waits for Kent to nod, dumbfounded, before he leans down the rest of the way and presses his mouth to Kent's.

It's a good first kiss. Chaste and warm, just a hint of Holster's tongue flicking out at the end before he pulls away. Kent gapes up at him, probably really unattractively.

“You know, Jack told me to be careful with you,” Holster murmurs. “When I told him about my giant crush. I'm starting to see why.”

He leans down again, and this kiss is not chaste. Boy howdy, is it not. After a minute Kent reels away, gasping, and Holster smirks down at him, glasses a little askew. It's a good look, Kent reflects, trying to get his breath back.

“Yeah, that's better,” Holster says.

“You are not smooth,” Kent fucking lies, and Holster beams at him.

“Yeah, but neither are you, so it's cool. Don't you have a road trip to get to?”

Kent has never been less enthusiastic about hockey. “I guess. We might have time--”

“No way,” Holster says. He kisses Kent once more, close-mouthed but still somehow dirty. “I want to take my time with you. I'll see you in a couple of days. I'm still feeding Kit while you're gone, right?”

“She needs at least twenty minutes of playtime a day, her feather thing is on the coffee table,” Kent says, because even if he's missing half his brain right now, Kit's still his best girl. He's not going to forget about her.

“I know.” Holster brushes a kiss across Kent's forehead, and that's it. Kent's done. Right now, he's done for. It's the end. “Don't worry. We'll be fine.”

Somehow, Kent makes himself leave. When he's buckling himself into his plane seat, brain still fried, his phone chirps. It's a text from Holster.

Smiling stupidly, he opens it. It's a selfie of Holster and Kit, their faces smushed together. Kit looks ready to commit homicide.

“What are you so happy about?” Hammer grouses. He's downing his Dramamine, which means he's going to be asleep on Kent's shoulder in the next twenty minutes.

“Nothing,” Kent says, stashing his phone. “Just a picture of the cat.”

 


End file.
